


Gratitude

by Saltlordofold



Series: Dragon age: Arising [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Dragon Age: Arising, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Thedas, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 19:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18999418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltlordofold/pseuds/Saltlordofold
Summary: Zevran is there for Aedan during one of his episodes.





	Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cullenlovesmen (handersmyheart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handersmyheart/gifts).



> This was written as a prompt fill for the amazing [Cullenlovesmen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handersmyheart/profile). The prompt was "I'm better when I'm with you" from tumblr user [@tiptoe39](https://tiptoe39.tumblr.com/post/152690639271/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list)'s awesome "Super Sappy Lines Prompt List".

 

 

 

Zevran was grateful for a lot of things. More than most remembered to be, perhaps: the life he once led had made him very aware of just how important it was to cling to the things one could be thankful for, just how _vital_ , so he had cultivated the skill. One some days it might have been a coin found on the ground, on others the laughter of a friend. On some nights a warm meal, a thick blanket that didn't scratch too badly, a stain on a shirt caught fast enough that the rust of it would fade without too much of a scrubbing, a garish nail polish to hide the red crusted under his nails.

Over the years, Zevran had sometimes been grateful for even just the blink of a star in-between grey clouds, in a moment when he needed something, _anything_ of beauty to keep his eye on, instead of whatever ugliness was going on around him.

Zevran was dutifully applying the skill to the matter at hand, that day. He reminded himself to be grateful for running water, which allowed him to fill a tall glass of fresh, clear liquid, healthy to drink and not even a little bit tinted with strange, soiled colours. To be grateful also for the roof over his head, letting him walk barefoot over the tiles of the hallway, not too warm, not too cold, safe and sheltered from the rain that was drumming on the leaves of the garden outside - another thing to be grateful for, that: nature kept at hand for nothing more than the beauty of its sight and the pleasure from its harvest. 

No matter how hard he tried, though, Zevran could not make himself be grateful for the look of pain that he saw tensing Aedan's tired features as he walked back into the bathroom. But he could at least be grateful that he was there to see it, and in a position to help. Grateful that such a proud man would be so open to him, so willing to let him close when he was at his most vulnerable. 

“Here are your pills,” Zevran said, and even if only a soft, distant hum of acknowledgement answered his voice, Zevran was very, extremely grateful Aedan still had breath for sound at all.

The bathtub the man was laying in was another thing to be grateful for, Zevran reminded himself: a luxury in this world, the vat large enough to hold two people at once – three, if one was determined, and they certainly would become. It had been quite the surprise to find Aedan there, one morning only a little after they had first moved in, bare-chested and eyes vacant, scars a purple danger in the dim white light. But the tub's curve was gentle against his back, Aedan had explained, and the porcelain mercifully cool against his skin. He favoured that place above all others, when the pain was at its worst: the stone-hard, cold touch offered the most relief out of any other surface he had tried his luck with. Also, he was as close as possible to where he needed to be should he need cleaning, but that, Aedan did not say. 

The basin on the ground beside the tub was emptied and washed twice already, anyway, and luckily it didn't seem like there would be any more need for it for the time being. Zevran was grateful for that as well: even though he wished he could once and for all properly impress on Aedan how little something as natural as the inner workings of one's body's could upset him, his dear warden was still most mortified by that particular, trivial aspect of the whole ordeal. Such a proud man, truly. 

If only he knew the things Zevran had seen, he would understand not to fret over something as little as a bit of sick. 

Taking in the wet feeling of the fresh air coming in from the open window, with its cold mist blown in from the rain, Zevran knelt on the ground by the tub. 

“Here we go,” he said, handing Aedan both the tall glass and the smaller plastic cup containing the medicine.

A kaleidoscopic motley of oddly-shaped little marbles filled it, the likes of which a kid could be found playing with on the steps of a porch, but definitely shouldn't. Aedan's hands were shaking, but he grabbed both items as firmly as he could. Zevran let his fingers linger on the back of the man's right wrist, cupping the febrile skin to help the motion along. Aedan was always hot, just as all Wardens were, running with their constant fever, so on days like these, he felt positively burning.

“Bottoms up,” Zevran softly instructed, but his warden was used to knocking back pills by the fistful, and needed no directions.

“Cheers,” Aedan whispered, doing what he had to before resting his head back against the tile with a long sigh and a deep frown, “Here's to keeping them down, this time.”

Zevran hummed in agreement and took the drained glass and empty cup from him, setting them down on the nearby counter. Shifting up, he sat at the head of the tub, perched over folded legs on top of the closed toilet lid. From there, he could comfortably cup Aedan's head, thrown back as it was against the rounded porcelain edge of the bath. Zevran pulled the sweaty curls back from that creased forehead, soothing down those furrowed brows with the flat of his palm. 

“How are you doing, _amore?_ ” he quietly asked.

 _Beloved._ The corner of Aedan's lip twitched at the sweet moniker. On some days, he would answer that question with a cock of the head, a valiant smile, a brave chuckle, or some kind of other dauntless joke he was so famously good at hiding behind. _“Not so fit,”_ he would say, _“unlike what you are, love,”_ or something the like. On other days, though, there were just eyes squeezed shut, a hard jaw, a tense line of the mouth, and no witty cracks, and that day was one of those days. 

Wordlessly, Aedan raised a blind hand behind his head, trusting Zevran to take it, and was not disappointed. Their fingers intertwined, hard, and Aedan's eyes fluttered open. So very green, they looked, when reddened and shiny as they were right then.

“I'm better,” he finally managed out, “When you're here.”

Gazing at nothing in particular in front of him, he let his hold on Zevran's hand firm, and added:

“When I'm with you.”

With a helpless chuckle, Zevran bent down to press a hard kiss on that damp forehead. How far they'd come from Aedan hiding all of this from his sight. 

“Good,” Zevran whispered.

His gaze trailed over the savage display of Aedan's scars, the deep-seated web of bumps and ridges left behind from when his Warden healing, bolstered by the Corruption surrounding him at the time the bullets went through his body, had done such a brutal job of mending what was broken. Despite the toll it levied now, Zevran forced himself remember that it was what had saved Aedan's life, at the time, and that no cost was too steep for that. _Pain_ , one of his Crow elders used to say, jump cables buzzing in her hands, _is just the price of living._

Lips pressed into Aedan's dark hair, Zevran closed his eyes, and murmured the vital truth:

“I'm grateful.”

 

 


End file.
